The charges said Jacob Cobb strangled his mother on the living room floor. Then he or his brother Andrew put a plastic bag over her head and tightened a belt around her neck. Clemens allegedly drove her body west to South Dakota, then east to Glenwood, Minn., before storing the corpse in a garbage can in a shed for months until the ground thawed enough for the two elder brothers to bury it.
Sounds like the makings of a good Coen Brothers movie. Or a bad Joe Pesci movie…
Your normal moviegoer isn’t going to touch this with a ten-foot pole, so this review is aimed at fellow freak-cinema aficionados, the sort of people who see a trailer for a film about a murderous telekinetic tire, and go “Oh yeah! I have to see that!”
You might want to reconsider.
I am totally down with the idea of a film about a murderous telekinetic tire, but Rubber disappointed me. About half the film, the scenes of the tire itself, its slowly building murderous rampage (it starts out with small animals before going all Scannners on various humans unfortunate enough to cross its path), and it stalking a random hot French chick, work almost as well as I hoped they would. All it needed was some recycled Michael Bay music for the perfect over-dramatic touch.
Hot French chick included. Sadly, it doesn't really help.
Unfortunately, the other half of the film ruins the tire-rampage sections, by imposing an arty-farty, post-modern, metafictional framing device whereby a bunch of slow-witted redshirts are lured into the desert to watch the tire’s rampage through dispensed binoculars as part of some sort of…what? Performance art? These parts serve only to pad out the film (and it’s a bad sign when an 82 minute film feels badly padded), provide a few (far too few) laughs, and heighten the artificial nature of the whole endeavor.
This is the wrong narrative strategy.
The way to make a film like this work is never to wink at the audience. Minoru Kawasaki provides great example of how to do this in The Calamari Wrestler and Executive Koala. The more absurd the actions, the more serious the actors played it. No one pointed out the combat boots sticking out of the giant squid, or the obvious zipper on the back of the koala’s head. Unlike Rubber, nobody comes out and gives a speech at the beginning about why things are done for “no reason.” Or, to pick a domestic example, no one walks on screen during Team America: World Police to point out how all the characters are marionettes.
Some things in the film work. The scene of the tire sitting in the hotel room watching NASCAR really captures the absurdest vibe the director seemed to be aiming for. The opening bit where the car knocks down every single artfully disarrayed breakaway chair almost works as a sort of white trash Jacques Tati cinematic tone poem. It’s got well-executed exploding heads. And you get to see Roxane Mesquida’s very shapely French ass for a few seconds while she takes a shower, which would be a big deal if it wasn’t for, you know, the Internet. (NSFW. You’re welcome.)
About the only way I can recommend seeing this is as part of a viewing party for weird films, especially if you give out a prize for whoever can come up with the most tire-related puns. But even in that context, it’s not remotely as inventive (or interesting) as the far-less-technically-competent Die, You Zombie Bastards!, which delivers steady doses of WTF throughout.
My advice? You shouldn’t see any films about murderous telekinetic tires until a better one rolls along.
Here’s the trailer, which includes most of the best scenes:
It’s clogging up New York state, but mainly I’m posting this as an excuse to post a video of one of my favorite Peter Gabriel-era Genesis songs, “The Return of the Giant Hogweed.”
And no video, but here’s a cleaner-sounding, kick-ass live version from a BBC performance:
Although this is more in Dwight’s line of work, you have to admire the sage efficiency of the advice offered by Sports Illustrated‘s Andy Staples in this handy guide: “Cheating for Dummies: Your guide to smarter NCAA rule-breaking.”
Rule #1: Always Pay Cash. (A lesson that will be repeated further in the piece.)
Rule #6 is to use burner cell phones for any illegal contacts with recruits. I was going to make a reference to The Wire…but Staples already did that too.
Sadly, not everyone can run a program as clean as Mack Brown, but for those who don’t, these simple tips should go a long way toward keeping your program from getting SMU-ed.
Underwritten by Gollancz. I assumed something of the sort was in the works, since I’ve heard the likes of John Clute and David Langford muttering about updated material from time to time, but it’s good to know that the rough beast now has a schedule for its slouching. As mentioned before, the second edition is pretty much essential for anyone with an interest in the field, and I expect the third to be no less essential.
The public has cried out “Stina! We just can’t get enough photos of her! Could you possibly put up a bunch more?” The blue hair fetish crowd has spoken, and who am I to deny the public what it wants? Vox populi, vox dei.
(If you’re wondering whether the phrase “Blue Hair Fetish” bring up a lot of Google hits, I can tell you: Yes. Yes it does. And you shouldn’t test this theory at work. (See also: Rule 34.))
Martha Wells and Troyce Wilson, just back from their awesome private tour of NASA. They even showed them the video feed of the top secret moonbase and the dead alien in the third subbasement freezer…
Three of the four redheads of the apocalypse: Julia Mandala, Rhonda Eudaly, and Linda Donahue.
By serendipitous chance, I have stumbled across the most delicious potato chips I’ve ever tasted.
You’re probably thinking “Oh, they’re probably truffle-flavored French potato chips you found at Central Market, and they’re $20 a bag.”
No. I found them at a convenience store in a combination Chevron/ McDonald’s in Cedar Creek on Highway 71 between Bastrop and Austin, they’re roasted garlic flavor, and they’re 79¢ a bag. And they’re made, of all places, in Detroit.
Behold Uncle Ray’s Roasted Garlic Potato Chips:
They taste like a really good slice of garlic bread, except saltier and crisper.
I don’t often eat potato chips (for all the obvious reasons), but if Central Market did have these, I’d definitely stock up for my next party…
I’ve seen some other videos of lanterns be floated over Poland as part of their midsummer festival, but I thought this was just too cool looking not to post.
Here’s a Top 100 List broken out by sub-genre. Unfortunately, in addition to expanding the list to include things like Westerns, it also lets some dubious crap in. (Constantine and Rendition? Really?) And Ronin is a great car chase surrounded by a pretty mediocre thriller.
